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Moaning Lisa Sings the Blues

Tales of the Enclave: Moaning Lisa Sings the Blues

(On a secluded estate an hour's drive north of New York City lies a highly exclusive retreat known to its wealthy and decadent members simply as the Enclave. Here rock stars, investment bankers, potentates and plutocrats come to dominate and be dominated in privacy and safety, assisted by an elite staff of expert dominatrixes. Also in residence is a select stable of submissive women and men carefully chosen for their beauty, responsiveness and sexual skills. All serve under one-year slave contracts to the Enclave's authority and discipline; in return, their physical health and safety are guaranteed, and generous trust funds are set up for them by the group's financial experts. Any slave may opt out of their contract at any time simply by saying a safeword, but if they do, they forfeit their stipends and are banished from the group for life.

(Hearing about the Enclave from contacts in New York's BDSM scene, Lisa Paradiso, an attractive and ambitious young reporter for Peephole magazine, hatches a daring scheme: to join the group undercover as a submissive so she can reveal its secrets in a sensational exposť. But she hasn't counted on falling in love with a handsome slave called Baby Face Nelson-nor on the keenness of her own appetites, which quickly earn her her own slave name: Moaning Lisa.

(As this story begins, Lisa is finishing a 30-day sentence in the Enclave's jailhouse, whose alluring blonde warden is known as Goldi Locks. How Lisa came to be there is a tale for another day.)

Stars were still visible between the bars of Lisa's window when she was rudely awakened from a sweet, sticky dream about Nelson by the Bobbsey Twins, who were being consigned to the double cell down the corridor from her single, drunk and highly disorderly. Holding her hand mirror sleepily through the bars of her cell, Lisa could see Goldi Locks and two strapping male slaves struggling to get the kicking, clawing girls secured. Both men were covered with scratches, and Lisa winced as he saw the taller of them take a direct hit in the balls from Flossie's suede Manolo Blahnik pump before Goldi managed to get the cell door shut.

For the next hour, the twins hammered on their bars and screamed vivid obscenities, threatening Goldi with tortures far more severe than anything ever administered at the Enclave. These, Freddie assured any and all within earshot, would be inflicted on Goldi at Guantanamo Bay by trained experts imported from Saudi Arabia. Gradually the invective petered out, only to be replaced by the sounds of violent upchucking. Finally, this too subsided. Lisa was just getting back to sleep when she heard a key rattle in her cell door.

She opened her eyes to find Goldi Locks admitting a huge, naked muscleman to her cell. “Up and at 'em, Sunshine,” Goldi greeted her cheerily. “You have a visitor, you lucky girl.”

She smiled smugly before disappearing down the corridor, leaving Lisa's visitor looming over her cot. The hair covering his massive body was almost as black as the latex hood that exposed only his dark, glaring eyes. Sharp metal spikes radiated from his collar and an impressive erection was blossoming through a cock ring built into the front of his black leather thong. The clatter he made dropping a fistful of bondage gear to the floor made Lisa's safeword fly to the front of her mind.

Lisa quivered with dread and excitement, but when she looked into her visitor's eyes, she noticed the dog tag dangling from his collar and the fat bulge sheathed beneath his nose: a ball gag. This was no master come to ravish a helpless prisoner, she realized; this was just another slave like her. Eyeing his erection, she yawned theatrically. “Like what you see? I'm flattered. But you can't do anything about it, can you?”

Leaning close to his dangling cock, she extended her tongue to within a tantalizing inch of the pre-cum glistening on its tip. Then she put her thumbs to the sides of her head and waggled her fingers. “Nyahh nyahh nyahh nyahh nah,” she taunted in a schoolgirl singsong. “You can't touch me….”

A stifled snarl penetrated the slave's gag. Snatching up a pair of handcuffs from the pile of gear he'd brought, he pulled her up from the cot by her hair and locked her wrists painfully tight behind her. Squatting, he hobbled her ankles with a twelve-inch chain, again shutting the shackles tighter than seemed wholly necessary.

When he stood back up, he was holding an enormous patent-leather collar, as red and shiny as a fire truck. Lisa tried not to let him know how intimidating it looked. “Cute,” she said. “But red's not my color. You got anything in a nice earth tone?”

The slave snorted angrily and wrapped the thing around her neck. It was huge, extending all the way from her shoulders to her chin. When he snapped it shut, Lisa found herself compelled to hold her head as high as a Marine on parade. She'd seen posture collars on other slaves, but never had to wear one till now. She'd always thought their width was for show; she hadn't realized how constricting they were. She couldn't turn her head. She could barely swallow.

She couldn't see the floor anymore either, but apparently there was one more item in the pile of gear her visitor had dropped there: a leash, which he snapped onto the huge ring on the front of her collar. As he did, she finally managed to read the dog tag dangling from his own collar: SILENT CAL.

Turning, Silent Cal tugged the leash hard, and Lisa stumbled out into the corridor behind him. As he marched her past the Bobbseys' cell, Lisa could see out the corner of her eye that the twins were dead to the world. Freddie had at least made it to the bottom cot, but Flossie was sprawled across the floor by the toilet, her designer dress up around her thighs. A sour stink wafted from the cell; the girls had vomited with poor aim. Lisa pitied the slave who'd have to clean up after them.

Across the corridor from the twins, a distinguished-looking gentleman Lisa recognized as the senior senator from Virginia was sitting on his cot with a battered metal tray in his lap, gnawing on a stale chunk of bread. Perhaps in deference to his position, his prison stripes were modest: a T-shirt and matching leggings. He had a large iron ball chained to his right ankle and a pillbox cap in his silver hair. Was this some kind of self-imposed penance for the ethics charges he'd managed to evade in Washington?

The sliding door at the end of the corridor clanged loudly behind Lisa as Silent Cal led her into the next cellblock. A new prisoner she thought she'd heard Goldi Locks call Shy Fawn leaped up from the toilet in her cell as they approached. A pretty little Asian, she wore a two-piece uniform with a triangle top that made the most of her small breasts.

Shy Fawn cast her almond eyes down in embarrassment as she hastily pulled up her panties. Lisa studied them indignantly. How did this little slut rate a bra and panties while Lisa had had nothing but her prison-stripe thong to wear for the past month? In the rigid hierarchy of the Enclave, every tiny shred of clothing conveyed status, as well as providing protection from the random strokes of paddle and lash slaves constantly received to encourage obedience and submission. In addition, panties covered marks. It was considered shaming to have one's marked ass exposed for all to see, and it tended to invite further chastisements. Only out-and-out masochists like Screaming Mimi and Rosy Cheeks were perverse enough to display their marks with pride.

Hey, whore, how long did you have to lick Goldi's pussy to get that uniform, Lisa was about to ask. But before she could, her leash snapped taut and she had to stumble along behind Silent Cal to the next cell. And a good thing, too, for in it was none other than Goldi Locks herself. She had just finished putting a male prisoner bound in a stress position, his wrists pulled up high behind him by a rope from a pulley attached to the ceiling of his cell. Lisa envied his padded leather wrist cuffs; her metal ones hurt already.

Corpulent and balding, Goldi's victim was obviously a visiting client. Unlike the senator, he was cross-dressed; his mottled buttocks sagged out of a Brazilian-cut bikini bottom like Shy Fawn's, and an underwire top pushed up his flabby man-boobs. A stream of drool was trailing through the hole in the red breather gag strapped in his mouth. He looked ridiculous, and the novelty pig nose he was wearing above his gag didn't do anything to help.

Goldi Locks, in contrast, was a vision in her high-necked, short-sleeved leotard of sky-blue vinyl, the same color as the straps of her leather flogger. Her hair was magnificent as always, a golden torrent down to her tight butt. As Lisa came hobbling by, Goldi snapped her fingers at Silent Cal: “Hold it, slave.”

With what sounded suspiciously like a sigh, the big man stopped, turned, and folded his arms resignedly. Meanwhile, Goldi was waving her flogger's dildo-shaped handle in her prisoner's face. “Don't think I'm through with you, Porky,” she told him. “You're getting this end first.”

After locking him in with a key from the ring she always wore on her broad leather belt, Goldi sauntered over to Lisa, the heels of her shiny black boots clacking noisily on the concrete floor. Lisa caught a whiff of her musky perfume: patchouli.

Goldi grazed Lisa's right nipple with the tip of the flogger's handle. “You know, I'm almost sorry to see you go, little Lisa,” she said. “You've been a model prisoner.”

Lisa had always liked patchouli; it reminded her of wet pussy. Her nipples were hardening. Maybe it was the tight collar, but she felt dizzy as Goldi's periwinkle eyes gazed into hers. “I'll miss you too, Mistress,” she murmured.

“Don't worry, dear.” Now Goldi was squeezing the other nipple ever so gently. “You're too much of a slut to stay out of trouble very long. You'll be back.”

Lisa found herself wishing Goldi would squeeze harder. All her best intentions went out the window. “Oh, goody,” she said. “Can you save my cell for me? I like the view.”

Goldi's smile vanished. She hooked her forefinger through the ring on Lisa's collar and brought them nose to nose. “That cell,” she hissed, “is the Ritz fucking Carlton compared to where I'll put you the next time you mouth off to me, slave. Remember it.”

Lisa grinned. “I have a lousy memory.”

“Really? Maybe you need a reminder.” Goldi snapped her fingers at Silent Cal again and pointed her flogger at the double cell across from poor Porky, who had spread his stubby legs wide, trying to ease the tension on his arms. “Cal. Put her in here.”

Silent Cal fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. He pointed to his mouth.

“No, you may not take your gag out,” Goldi snapped. “What is your fucking problem?”

The big slave looked sheepish. He sighed, shuffled his feet, and finally pointed to his left wrist.

“Why, you insolent piece of shit,” Goldi exclaimed. “You think I give a shit about your schedule? Put this bitch in this fucking cell now. And get your worthless ass in there with her.”

Lisa's bravado fled as Goldi followed her and Silent Cal into the cell and spun them roughly around. What if Goldi extended her sentence? The thought of more long weeks locked away from Nelson made her heart turn over in her chest.

Since she couldn't look over her shoulder, she had to pivot awkwardly to see behind her. Goldi had tucked her flogger into her belt, freeing her hands to adjust a pair of ceiling pulleys like the one Porky Pig was attached to. “I'm sorry, Mistress Goldi,” Lisa tried. “I promise I'll be-- whoa.”

All at once she was looking at her own feet. Goldi had hooked her handcuffs to a rope from one of the pulleys and, with one quick yank, Lisa was bent over from the waist, her arms nearly vertical behind her. She hadn't realized how badly she needed a pedicure.

She was able to bring her head up just enough to see Porky Pig across the corridor, struggling in the same fix she was in. Somehow it didn't seem as funny now. She heard the snap of handcuffs and the squeak of another pulley, and then there was Silent Cal bent over next to her in the same predicament. He glared over his gag at her.

The collar prevented Lisa from looking between her legs to see behind her, but she could hear Goldi taking the flogger back out of her belt. “You two shitheads picked the wrong day to fuck with me,” she was saying. “I'm tired, I'm cranky, and I'm getting my period. So you're getting twenty lashes each.”

Twenty, oh Jesus. Lisa squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her buttocks. She heard the whoosh of leather thongs slicing through air. Then came a savage crack, but no pain; instead, Silent Cal twitched next to her. Goldi had started with him. He shook his head like a punch-drunk boxer and planted his feet wide.

Now it was her turn, Lisa didn't doubt. But instead, Silent Cal got nine more strokes in a row, loud, meaty smacks that made her flinch each time. She couldn't help but admire the big man; he was snorting fiercely through his nose, but uttered not a whimper.

There was a pause. Now, Lisa was certain, she would get hers. She made her ass as hard as a rock. But no: Goldi was laying into Cal again, with the same steady cadence as before. Her control within the cramped cell was superb; Lisa could feel the breeze of the thongs whizzing by, but they never so much as brushed her as they proceeded to land squarely on Cal. The big slave was taking the second half of his sentence as stoically as the first, his eyes fixed on the floor. Lisa couldn't help counting off how long she had before her own ordeal would begin: sixteen, seventeen, eighteen--

Lightning burst along the sensitive seam between her buttocks and the backs of her thighs. She had just enough time to realize how neatly Goldi had suckered her into exposing her most tender spot before a high, ugly shriek tore out of her.

“Ah,” Goldi chortled. “Now that's the sound I like to hear.”

Fuck you, bitch, Lisa thought, her hobble chain rattling as she pranced in place, trying to walk off the sting. Didn't women have higher pain thresholds than men? Wasn't that why they were the ones who had the babies? Goldi had caught her by surprise, but now she was ready. If Cal could be silent, so could she.

But as the next stroke slashed across the center of her cheeks, she heard herself gasp. And number three came much quicker than she expected; Goldi had a wicked backhand. To her disgust, Lisa squealed like a suckling pig. Now she realized what an unfair advantage Cal had; she wished she had a nice gag to bite on.

As if reading her mind, Goldi chuckled and came around in front of her, taking her sweet time. She pulled Lisa's head up by her hair to look her in the eye. “How's that memory doing now?”

Goldi laughed even louder. “You stupid cunt. You'd be with him right now if you'd just stayed out of your own way.”

Lisa stared up at her in hope. “Can I still see him? Please, Mistress. I'll do anything.”

Goldi shoved her head back down disdainfully. “Oh, you'll see him soon enough, though I don't think you'll like it very much when you do. Meantime, since you asked me to beat you black and blue, I'm happy to oblige.” She stepped back behind Lisa. “Sing for me, little canary.”

And sing Lisa did. As Goldi pounded a heavy-metal beat across her burning bottom, she belted out a medley of the same sad tunes she'd heard other slaves of the Enclave wail: lowdown blues (“I'm So Sorry, Mistress”); poignant ballads (“I Promise I'll Obey”); hardcore punk (“Fuck! That Hurts”), even a gospel selection (“Oh God, Please Stop.”) She also threw in some fancy dance steps, and played percussion on the chain between her ankles. She was a regular one-woman band, Lisa was, though she did get a bit of muffled backing vocal from Silent Cal when Goldi caught him off-guard with two rapid-fire strokes between Lisa's eleventh and twelfth. Yes, Lisa sang like a diva at the Met, performing a heartfelt aria bursting with all the tragedy and passion of grand opera. She even got a standing ovation; as her head jerked up after the searing sixteenth stroke, she noticed that Shy Fawn was watching wide-eyed through the bars of her cell, and slowly rubbing her crotch against one of them. Maybe she wasn't quite shy as she looked, Lisa decided, before stroke number seventeen washed her thoughts away in a flood of fire.

But even as Goldi's flogger bit into her soft asscheeks yet again, even as its thongs found their way into the delicate crevice between her ravaged thighs, there was a subtle undertone of hope to Lisa's song. Each crack of the whip, she knew, was bringing her another moment closer to Nelson. Now she could see how merciful Goldi had been to let her know that.

So when Goldi finally proffered her the flogger's phallic handle to kiss as she dangled limp and docile from the pulley after the twentieth stroke--a humdinger that had brought her up howling onto her tiptoes--it was with utter sincerity and gratitude that she croaked, “Thank you for correcting me, Mistress.” She even felt it necessary to add: “I-I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me.”

Goldi Locks stroked her face tenderly. “Little Moaning Lisa. At first I thought you might have something going for you, but you're just another slave, aren't you? Not even a good one like Cal here. You're just another pig, like him.” She waved the flogger contemptuously toward Porky Pig, who pointed his plastic snout at the floor in tacit agreement.

Lisa hung her head in shame along with him. “Yes, Mistress. I am a bad slave.”

“That's right. And the saddest part is, you don't even know why, do you?”

“No, Mistress.” Lisa looked up at her mournfully. “Why?”

Goldi plunged her hand between Lisa's thighs. Lisa shuddered with pleasure, but before she could come, Goldi withdrew her fingers and held them to Lisa's nose. They were soaking wet.

Lisa could smell her own musk mingling with Goldi's patchouli as Goldi smeared the juices across her face. “Don't you see, Lisa? You're not just a slut. You're a pain slut.”